


A Subtler Seduction

by FayJay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-04
Updated: 2009-05-04
Packaged: 2017-10-02 08:58:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FayJay/pseuds/FayJay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dean and Ruby have entirely too much in common.</p><p>(Could be interpreted as slash or gen, depending on your goggles.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Subtler Seduction

It's Ruby – who isn't supposed to be there, damn it – who finally gets her hands on the knife that Dean had last seen go skittering out of Sam's grip and across the polished tiles as he fell; Ruby who yanks the witch's head right back and slashes the bastard's throat with the knife; Ruby who saves the day. Blood pours down onto Dean like some fucked up baptism and he rolls out from under the body, coughing and spitting and choking on the salty copper taste of someone else's blood.

“What the fuck?” he snarls, brushing the back of his hand against his mouth, mopping ineffectively at his slick skin and soaking shirt.

Ruby shrugs. She's already hunkering down beside Sam, checking his pulse, lifting his eyelids and peering into his vacant eyes. “Hey, you'd prefer me to stick a knife through both of you at once, fine. Next time you're pinned to the floor, I'll skewer you along with the monster.”

Dean gets to Sam a heartbeat later, sticky and wincing. One of his shoulders is dislocated. Again. “I'm covered in this shit,” he says, wiping his good hand on his jeans. Not that it matters. He finds Sam's pulse himself in the hollow of his throat, leaving a bloody print there despite his best endeavours. Alive. Okay then. Just that stupid spell knocking him out. “And I thought I told you to keep your nose out of this?”

“Yeah, you're welcome,” mutters Ruby.

Dean looks at her. She has just saved his ass, and Sam's, and not for the first time, or the fifth, or the twentieth. And she's looking down at Sam's unconscious body like a mother hen with only one chick. Still. “I don't trust you,” he says roughly.

“No shit.” She glances at the wreckage of the living room, taking in the crocheted cushions with their guts torn out, delicate china knick-knacks shattered into a thousand shards, pot pouri mixed with broken glass and antique chairs in splinters. Black candles arranged at neat intervals around a circle painted in chicken blood on the polished floor. Sam sprawling and gently snoring on a rug as pink as cupcake frosting. One single solitary little old man in a green satin bathrobe and fluffy carpet slippers – who had been pretty damn feisty, for someone four centuries old, thank you very much - lying in a pool of his own blood. “Yeah, looks like you were doing a bang up job of handling grandpa on your own.”

They glare at each other for a long moment, then Dean bends to pick Sam up, and his leg gives way beneath him. In the end it takes the pair of them to drag Sam back to the Impala, Dean swearing the whole way. Demons lie, he tells himself silently as he lets her shoulder half the burden. Even when they tell the truth, it's a lie. But he watches the way that Ruby protects Sam's lolling head automatically as she helps Dean bundle the limp body onto the back seat, and it's that unthinking little gesture of tenderness that gets to him. He watches her struggle to fold Sam's long limbs up to fit onto the back seat, takes in the tension in her shoulders and the tight little line of her mouth, and he sighs.

“D'you wanna ride?” he offers. It's an olive branch, and he can see her recognise it as such. “You can sit up front,” he adds – and that would be a first, because Sammy always gets shotgun, and Ruby, on the handful of occasions she has been inside the Impala, has only ever been suffered to pollute the back seat, and only then at Sam's insistence.

He darts a glance at her face, and sees the startled look before her mouth curves into the mocking smile he'd learned to hate on the blonde version, and hates just as much on this hot little brunette. It occurs to him to wonder, though, whether she's mocking him or herself. “I'll take the ride,” she says after a moment. “But I'll sit back here with Sleeping Beauty. Wouldn't want to go getting above myself, now, would I?”

“Suit yourself,” snaps Dean, stalking to the driver's door. Ruby eels her way into the back seat with Sam and pulls his upper body over her lap like a rug, cradling his head. Dean glances in the mirror and sees the way she's looking at his little brother, and doesn't know what to say.

His leg hurts, and his shoulder is killing him, and he's definitely in no shape to drive. But he's not about to let the demon behind the wheel of the Impala, so he sucks it up and makes it work. Dean drives silently back to the motel without going over the speed limit, conscious that he's coated in blood and has an unconscious body in the back seat and a trunk full of weapons, and all the way there he's thinking very hard about trust, and Hell, and second chances.

Forty five minutes later he lets Ruby help him manhandle his inconveniently huge and heavy baby brother out of the back of the car. His left arm is precious little use at this point, the dislocated shoulder making him flinch and bite down hard on his bottom lip. “I really fucking hate witches,” he mutters, the first thing he's said since they left the site of the aborted ritual. He means it as something neutral, something on which they can both agree - and then remembers that she used to be a witch. Although, on the bright side, that means she might have some inside information. “Say -any idea when this mojo is going to wear off?”

He's trying to play nice. He's not sure whether he's trying for Sam, or whether he's trying because he wants to believe that, even if Castiel had never saved him, even if he'd been trapped down there forever, and they'd successfully made him into one of them, that he could still have _wanted _to make things right. That he could still have been redeemable. No angel had come for Ruby; he has no idea how long it took her to break. He certainly can't blame her for breaking.

She shoots him an uncertain look over Sam's unruly mop of hair as they heave him onto the pavement. “What, suddenly you'd believe anything a demon has to say? A former witch?”

“Give it a rest,” says Dean, his breath huffing out between clenched teeth. “Jesus Christ, Sammy, when did you get so big? He weighs a fucking ton!”

Ruby has one of Sam's arms over her shoulder as Dean painfully takes the other. Sam's feet drag on the pavement behind them. “He _is_ a big boy, isn't he?” she murmurs with a little smirk, and Dean winces. A demon who's fucked his brother. And he can't even begin to imagine what Dad would have to say about that.

He swipes the keycard through the lock, and they lug Sam through onto his unmade bed.

“By morning,” says Ruby, and it takes Dean a moment to catch up with her. She looks at him, brushing stray curls out of her eyes. “He'll be fine by morning. Probably be the first good night's sleep he's had in months.”

“Okay,” says Dean. He looks from Ruby to Sam and back again, tries to shrug, and winces. “Shit. Can you – any chance you can do my shoulder for me?”

“Another favour? From a big bad demon?”

He turns away. “Whatever. I can manage.”

“No, it's okay,” she says in a milder tone, and she steps up close and puts her hands on him, just like Sam would have done. Her hands are much smaller, and she's this little, distractingly girl-shaped thing, and she smells good, but she is still, undeniably, a demon. He feels her fingers close over his arm exactly where Castiel's hand grasped him, and the scar sends a jolt of sudden heat through his body. He's flinching from that at the same moment that she snaps the bone back into place, inhumanly strong, and the combination makes him cry out, just a little.

He turns to meet her gaze, and ducks his head. “Thanks,” he says. “And for – y'know. Back there. Thanks.”

“You're welcome,” she says, after a moment, and there is no mockery in her tone.

He really does want to believe she's one of the good guys. He is quietly terrified that she isn't, but the possibility won't leave him alone. And, God, what the fuck is he thinking? Demons lie. She's not to be trusted. She's not a girl, she's not a person, she's a monster. But - she used to be a person. There's the rub. And she's saved Sammy, time and again, while Dean was gone. And she walked willingly up to Alastair and let him torture her for them. Alastair, who haunts Dean's nightmares. Alastair, who almost took down Castiel. Dean doesn't want to be a dick, but he doesn't want to be a fool either. Still, he's pretty sure that, whatever her intentions, she isn't going to do anything to hurt Sam. Not tonight, at least. She's had plenty of chances, if simple assassination were all she was after.

“Are you – do you have a place to stay?”

Right now she's staring at him like he's just grown another head, and Dean is almost ashamed of himself for his hostility. But – demon. But then, there but for the grace of God...honestly, he has no idea what to think. It makes his head ache.

“You can sleep on the couch,” he adds, nodding towards the furniture in question. No way he's giving up his bed out of some Quixotic impulse towards Sam's demon squeeze. And no way he's suggesting she bunk with Sammy in their shared room. “There's a spare blanket in the closet.”

“A sleepover?” She flutters her eyelashes, and her smile is ironic. “Dean, anyone might get the impression you liked me.” But he catches the uncertainty in her voice. If she's playing them, she's very, very good.

But of course, she would be. Damn it.

He glares. “Hey, I'm not asking you to the Prom here. But there's space on the couch if you need it.”

She stares at him through narrowed eyes for a beat, and then shakes her head. “It's okay, Dean. I've got a place to go.” She glances at Sam again, and then bites her lip. “Still - can I maybe grab a shower, while I'm here?” she asks. “I'd like to wash some of the witch out of my hair.”

Dean blinks. “Sure.” He looks down at his shirtfront, stiff with dried blood and dirt, thinks longingly of the shower himself, and considers being a gentleman and telling her to go first. But she is a demon, when all's said and done. “Rock, paper, scissors?” he offers instead.

Her amusement seems genuine.

He is pissy but unsurprised when she beats him three out of three.

* * *

Castiel feels the brush of unhallowed flesh like burning tar adhering to his skin. He falters in the midst of battle, his feathers unfurling in sudden startlement behind him and the point of his blade falling as some strange phantom pain rushes through his fingers and is gone. Uriel, in the midst of scouring the nest, turns to glare disapproval at him.

Dean, thinks Castiel, with horrible clarity. Something evil is touching him. Something or someone is trying to draw him back to hell. He spreads his wings in readiness to spring out of the melee, then meets Uriel's glittering gaze and knows he cannot leave. The infestation must be burned out of existence. Orders are orders, and disobedience – he cannot believe that he is even imagining disobedience. But Dean – he has a duty to protect Dean Winchester too. And he _wants_ to.

“Do not consider leaving us to play with your mud monkey,” bellows Uriel, knowing Castiel entirely too well, even if he cannot sense the darkness that threatens Dean. He recognises the expression on Castiel's face. “His perils are his own affair. Your duty lies with us!”

And so it does. Castiel plunges back into the fray with a fresh urgency, and if this is not fear, then surely it is something very like it. He dreads coming too late. The seconds crawl by as he lays about him with the sword, hacking at hides too thick for mortal strength to penetrate. The enemy are screaming as they die, screaming and biting and lashing out with claws as sharp as razors, their blood eating away at the stone floor, and their numbers are daunting. The angels are stronger, but they are vastly outnumbered. He cannot leave the field.

It will not be the first time he has felt Dean to be in peril, and been unable to do anything about it. Castiel is a warrior of heaven, not a nurse maid, and it should not trouble him that the human is being left to fend for himself. If it is God's will that Dean Winchester survive, then surely survive he will. So he tells himself.

He does not find this thought as reassuring as it should be.

When he reaches the motel an hour later, silent and invisible and fatigued from the battle, he knows at once which demon he felt touching Dean. Demons stain the world wherever they walk, and by now he is all too familiar with Sam's demonic familiar. His mouth tightens into a narrow line. Castiel steps through the wall as easy as breathing and stands in the middle of the room. She was here not long ago. Again. He glances across at Sam, registers the fading bonds of the spell that holds him unconscious, and then crosses quietly to Dean's bed and stands beside it, tasting Dean's dreams.

The horrors are entirely too familiar: the pit, and what Dean had been gradually becoming there, under Alastair's tutelage. Often his victim is someone he loves: Bobby; his father; his mother; Pastor Jim; Cassie; a High School teacher who had been kind to him; any of the succession of willing one night stands he has worked his way through since his teens. People he managed to save. People he didn't. The waitress who served their breakfast that morning. The gas station attendant who filled up the Impala that afternoon. Sam. Almost always, in the end, it becomes Sam. The bodies all beg and writhe and scream and bleed under Dean's knife, while tears track down his face. In his dreams, almost every night, he breaks them all with brutal efficiency, if not with the relish or the artistry Alastair had tried to teach.

Castiel cannot understand why the Lord condemned Dean Winchester to such a fate. Why Hell is peopled with souls in such torment – men and women and children who tried their best, who were tricked by creatures they never knew existed, and who find themselves torn asunder for their sins. Who become monsters in death that they never were in life. He tells himself it is beyond his comprehension, and tries not to question the judgment of God, not even in his most secret heart of hearts. It is not his place.

But he wishes – oh, how he wishes – that he _could_ understand. It would be some consolation.

Dean's body lies quiescent, only the muscles in his face betraying the devastating shambles in his mind. Castiel glances again at Sam with narrowed eyes, then slides into the dream.

It is like stepping out of air and into water; a simple transition into a new sphere where sensations are subtly distorted, subtly different. Castiel takes in the bubbling screams, the flickering light, the terrible shadows with cruel eyes glinting in their depths, and the anguish in Dean Winchester's face. It is enough. He raises one hand and his unfurling wings pour light into every last corner of the room, obliterating the twitching mess bound to the table and the blood puddling underfoot as all the horrors vanish into pure white light. Dean looks up, trembling, wild eyed, a small, sad echo of the broken creature Castiel had sought and found in Hell. The serrated blade slides from his wet fingers and vanishes in the whiteness, and Castiel reaches out and clasps Dean's bloody hand in his.

“Now come away from this,” he says firmly, and pulls Dean back into the waking world.

Dean sits up in bed, breathing like he's been running for his life, and his eyes pick out Castiel in the dim reflected neon. He looks down and sees his fingers clutching at the angel's hand, and lets go of it abruptly.

“Damn,” he says, his voice ragged. He scrubs one hand through his hair and sits there, hunched over for a minute, composing himself in the half light. Castiel perches on the edge of the bed and watches him.

“She is seducing you,” he says, after a moment.

“What?” Dean blinks, still tangled in the threads of his dream.

“The demon you call Ruby is beginning to seduce you,” Castiel says, gravely. “I should eliminate her.”

“Woah, cowboy!” Dean protests. He scrabbles for the beside light and then sits blinking at the angel in the sudden brightness. “There's no seducing going on, and _believe me_, I would know. She helped us out in a tight spot, I let her use the shower, she hit the road. End of story. No touchy feely stuff. She's Sam's girl, man – what do you take me for?”

Castiel just stares at him in silence, baffled by this response. Dean looks over at Sam's sleeping body and back at the angel. “She is nobody's girl, Dean,” Castiel says at last. He wishes that he could better predict the way Dean's mind works, wishes it were more bound by logic and obedience. Although that would make him someone else, and Castiel would not really wish for that. Still... “She is no _girl._” He shakes his head in frustration. “It is not intercourse I mean, but a subtler seduction. You think of her as human, and it will cost you dear.”

Dean looks away. “Yeah,” he says uncertainly. “No, I know that she's a demon. It's not like I'm exactly thrilled Sam's been hanging out with a demon. Banging a demon. I mean, that's about as fucked up as you can get, right?”

Castiel cannot understand why Dean would waver on this. “You need to end this now, before it is too late.”

“Yeah,” says Dean again. He doesn't sound convinced. “Yeah. But, see, the thing is – she's been helping us. A lot. I mean, all along. She's been helping us to kill demons. Save people.” He darts an accusing glance at Castiel and then looks away again. Castiel is beginning to know Dean Winchester well enough to suspect that he is thinking about Uriel at this moment. About all the people Uriel would have killed to prevent Samhain from rising. The people Castiel would have stood by and watched die. It is not a very comfortable reflection. “I just – look, Cas, she says she used to be human. Is that true?”

“I think she is one of the lesser Fallen,” concedes Castiel. “She was never among the host of heaven.”

“So she was human, and she fucked up, and she got sent to Hell. And they made her into one of them.” Dean isn't looking at him. His voice is slightly hoarse. “But maybe she never wanted to be one of them, see, and this is her chance to make it right.” He rises from the bed, pads softly over to the little refrigerator and opens the door. Light pours out, illuminating Dean's face. Castiel can see a faint golden prickle of stubble on Dean's chin, the quiet curve of his lowered lashes, the way his chest rises and falls gently with each mortal breath. The blue t-shirt he wears is faded and threadbare, and the plaid cotton boxers have been washed too many times. Castiel is struck afresh by the reality of how vulnerable humans are, how short-lived, how much the slaves of their bodies. Hunger, thirst, heat, cold – it would take such a little thing to kill one. The simplest accident or misfortune, and their life would be snuffed out, their souls sent tumbling out into Hell or Heaven – or somewhere else, perhaps. Dean reaches into the fridge, hesitates with his fingers on the neck of a beer bottle, and then picks up a plastic bottle of water instead. He closes the door gently. “Maybe I kind of get that, you know?” He meets Castiel's gaze at last, as he untwists the white cap of the bottle. He gives a little shrug. “People in glass houses...”

Castiel watches him swallowing water. His throat bobs with each gulp. There are droplets of water sliding down onto his chin, catching the light, and a splatter of water darkening his t-shirt. Castiel thinks about blood, and oxygen. Eating and sleeping and breathing and moving only where your feet – or your car - can take you. Being tethered to one plane, one time; seeing and hearing and feeling and tasting only what can be interpreted by these flawed and vulnerable little organs. “But the Lord God forgave you. He did not forgive her,” says Castiel, his frown deepening. “She is not to be trusted.”

Dean's mouth twists into a smile, but it does not look much like happiness to Castiel. “See, I don't get that,” he says softly. His nostrils flare. He looks across at his sleeping brother and shakes his head. “I mean, seriously – not that I'm not grateful, because, you know, I really _am_ \- but, why me? I'm just me, you know?” He glances very quickly at Castiel and then ducks his head away. “I'm kind of a dick. I mean, I've helped some people, sure, but – really, Cas, I'm nothing special.”

Castiel stares at him incredulously. “You are special, Dean Winchester,” he says. “You have been singled out by God.”

Dean chokes on his water. It is as simple as that, Castiel thinks – they can drown, or choke on a stray piece of food. Their fragility is appalling. “Jesus,” Dean splutters. “No pressure!” Castiel watches him quietly. Of course there is pressure. The fate of the world hangs in the balance. This may be the end of days. Dean upends the bottle and drinks the last of its contents, then tosses the bottle at the trash can. “But do you _know_ she's lying? I mean, other than that whole 'demons lie' thing – do you actually know for sure that she's trying to bring us down? Or are you just assuming it?”

“We both know demons lie,” says Castiel. “She cannot help her nature.”

Dean sits down on the edge of the bed again, within arm's reach of Castiel. He doesn't look at him, but instead stares fixedly at the darkened TV screen. “That sounds to me like you're guessing, Cas.” He turns and looks at Castiel, and the angel is surprised by the earnestness of his expresion. “But life's full of surprises, buddy. Nobody gets saved from Hell – but you saved me. Who's to say she isn't part of the Big Guy's gameplan?”

Castiel forces himself to consider the possibility, but it still fills him with dread. “I do believe that she intends to corrupt both of you,” he says at last. “She leads your brother down a path that ends in Armageddon.”

“But what if she's for real?” asks Dean. He leans forward and grasps Castiel's forearm impulsively. “What if she's trying to make up for what they made her do? Don't you see, I _cannot_ refuse her that chance. Not me, of all people.” Castiel is listening, but at the same time he is acutely conscious of Dean's warm hand wrapped gently around his wrist; of the smell of cheap shampoo that clings to Dean's damp hair; of the myriad different shades of colour in his eyes. There is something astonishing about the way that Dean seems to forget, for whole minutes at a time, that Castiel is an angel. About the way that he sometimes slips, and calls him “Cas.” In all his centuries on earth and in heaven, Castiel has never experienced anything like his relationship with this human; there is an openness, an intimacy, an integrity to the man that Castiel finds terribly disarming. Uriel calls them “mud monkeys”; Castiel thinks, in private, that this is close to blaspheme.

“Angels can fall, right?” says Dean, after a moment.

Castiel swallows. He thinks about his grace, and lets himself wonder, just for a moment, about mortality. How it would be to experience life the way humans do, all blood and need and urgency and joy. To give in to selfishness, reject the Lord, become abomination. To eat, to sleep, to laugh, to fuck, to age and wither in a few short spans of years. To experience delight. “You know this to be true,” he says at last, when he can trust himself to speak.

Dean nods. He is staring into Castiel's eyes with an intensity that is almost uncomfortable to endure. “So isn't it possible for demons to, you know, rise? Or whatever the opposite would be? To change sides?”

Castiel's frown deepens. “You do not understand what you are asking.”

Dean presses his the heels of his hands against his eyes for a moment, and Castiel watches him unblinkingly. “Yeah, probably not,” he admits a moment later, with a small nod. “But I think maybe we need her. I think maybe she deserves a chance.”

Castiel looks at him. There are dark circles under his eyes, and a purpling bruise on one cheekbone, and he is almost painfully beautiful to look at. Painfully human. Castiel marvels that so frail a creature should be asked to carry such a weight, and he wishes that he knew how best to serve the Lord. “You run a dreadful risk,” he says at last.

“So what's new?” says Dean, rolling his eyes, and Castiel is surprised into a small smile.

“Do not let down your guard,” he says at last. “Remember who you are; remember what she is.”

Dean's smile is wide as the ocean, warm as sunlight. “Hey, I know you've got my back. You'll keep me out of trouble, right?” His tone is teasing; the same tone he uses with his brother. Castiel cannot remember anyone else teasing him in all the long millennia of his existence. It is something he associates only with Dean Winchester, something he does not really understand, but cherishes just the same.

“I shall do all I can to keep you safe,” he says sincerely, and is rewarded by another grin.

“Cool.” Dean looks at the bed, and his smile falters. “Say, is there any way – I don't know if this is part of your celestial skill set, but can you do anything about my, you know. The dreams?”

Castiel considers. “Not permanently, no,” he says. Dean's face falls. “But still perhaps I can ensure you have a peaceful night.” It warms him to see the hopeful look in Dean's eyes. “Lie down.”

Dean tilts his head slightly, regarding Castiel with an expression of sheepish amusement. “Are you going to tuck me in and tell me a bedtime story?”

“Will you do as you're told?”

“Yes sir,” says Dean, grinning again, and saluting sharply. He gets back under the covers, thumbs off the bedside light and then lies back with his head in the middle of the pillow. “Now what?”

Castiel just looks at him, patiently. After a moment Dean closes his eyes, and Castiel takes his hand. Such a clever, flexible thing, the human hand. So delicate a structure. He can feel the warmth of Dean's blood and the shape of the bones beneath his skin, can feel the regular thrum of his heartbeat. “Just think of somewhere safe,” says Castiel quietly, and Dean slides gently into a new dream.

Castiel watches the dream, for a little while. It does not surprise him that Dean's safe place is the Impala, but it does surprise him, a little, that Dean himself is not behind the wheel. Instead Dean Winchester dreams of his father driving them through the star-drenched darkness, while Sam – a small, chubby-faced urchin with sauce stains on his t-shirt and ink stains on his fingers – clutches a bear in nerveless fingers and drowses against Dean's shoulder. In the dream, Dean looks around ten years old, and happier than Castiel has ever seen him.

It comes to him then, watching Dean Winchester sleep, that there is nothing he will not do to keep him safe.

FINIS


End file.
